


One Flew Over...

by 1f_this_be_madness



Category: One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest (1975), One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest - Ken Kesey, Supernatural
Genre: Electro-Shock therapy, F/M, M/M, Mentions of self-harm, Self-Harm, Spoilers thru Season 10, Such is Supernatural as a show, This is horribly depressing I know, Thoughts of Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-07
Updated: 2015-07-07
Packaged: 2018-04-08 03:30:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4289031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1f_this_be_madness/pseuds/1f_this_be_madness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester has a touch of narcissistic personality disorder--which may not be a surprise to many fans of Supernatural--but now, he has been diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia. After being unable to save Sammy from that fire after the death of Jessica, Dean went on a dangerous nearly ten-year-long hunting rampage alone. He either didn’t make it to his brother’s room in time; or it’s a year after the Demon Trials, and Death had actually taken Sam without angelic interference.</p><p>So Dean exists in a mental hospital, a nuthouse--unable to deal directly with how and where all of this started--twenty miles away at Stanford University, when, all those endless years ago, he had told his brother: "Dad's on a hunting trip, and he hasn't been home in a few days."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nuthouse

**Author's Note:**

> I was listening to “Carry On Wayward Son” by Kansas and it hit me—this song is/could be about mental illness, specifically schizophrenia to my way of thinking.
> 
> 'I hear the voices when I'm dreaming…' immediately puts that specific mental illness in mind
> 
> 'Once I rose above the noise and confusion / just to get a glimpse beyond this illusion…' could be a mental patient talking about coming to grips with reality as opposed to the voices in his head, i.e. the illusion
> 
> The kicker for me is this verse: ‘Masquerading as a man with a reason / My charade is the event of the season / And if I claim to be a wise man / it surely means that I don’t know…’
> 
> I don’t think this is a coincidence that this SPECIFIC song is played at the start of every Supernatural season finale, because every other song utilized by the writers has something to do with the episode it is featured in. Since Sam is the character that the audience identifies with, the person we’ve followed since the pilot when he’s at Stanford…what if the show ends with him in a padded room and we find out that Dean and Bobby and Ellen and Jo and Cas and everyone else are just voices in his head that manifested after he lost Jess in the fire?! And this could actually make terrible sense because symptoms of schizophrenia can manifest in a person’s early 20s!!!
> 
> Or, plot twist—DEAN is the person with schizophrenia because he was not able to save Sammy from that fire when he was four years old and his little brother was a baby; his dad went back in to get their mom, so Dean was the only one who made it out of the house alive; or after the death of Jessica Dean didn’t make it to his brother’s room in time; either that, or it’s a year after the Trials occurred, and Death had actually taken Sam without interference.
> 
> People worry about Dean’s last words being “Goodnight, Sammy,” as Sam dies, but what if this isn’t literal? What if the death of Sam just occurs in Dean’s mind, and in turn he feels as though he can’t go on hunting (or living) anymore???

~~~  
“It’s time for your medicine, Dean.”

The blue-eyed nurse says this quietly; his growly voice is gentle as he kneels in front of Dean’s chair and his white coat spreads out around his feet like a puddle of snow. Dean always thought only doctors wore those types of coats, but this place is nothing like he expected. Nothing is as it seems in his personal world entire, so why would it be the way he expected in the outside world, either? He raises his clouded green eyes, which haven’t held any expression other than loss and hate in a long time, and after working his full lips for a minute, he finally spits,

“Bite me.” His nurse doesn’t even bat an eye at this language. He has come to expect it from Dean Winchester, and calmly responds,

“As much as I would enjoy that, there are regulations frowning upon nurse practitioner/ patient contact of that sort.” 

Dean’s eyes actually widen with shock as he stares directly into his nurse’s face for the first time. Castiel, for that is the nurse’s name, smiles and his entire face brightens with the expression. Dean curses at himself silently. He always swears he isn’t going to break during these little exchanges, won’t show any emotion; otherwise, Cas wins. 

They had reached this arrangement after three weeks of Dean spitting his pills back in the nurse’s face or alternatively slapping them out of his hand. He even hit Castiel himself once, and was shocked when the nurse simply let his fist fall, connecting sharply with the dark-haired man’s high cheekbone and sending him lurching to one side. Before he could stop himself, Dean had half-risen to help the other man up, hand outstretched in contrition for his unreasonable anger. It isn’t Cas’s fault that he is in here, after all; Dean had done this to himself, had been caught doing insane things by the cops enough times for them to conclude that he was certifiable and that they had to send him to this place for the good of society. 'It’s about time, too,' Sam would have teased, his bright teeth flashing in a happy laugh at Dean’s expense, and since he was the one who ragged on Sammy most of the time, Dean would’ve let that slide. He would have probably laughed as well. But Sam wasn’t here. He’d been gone forever, it seemed. In reality, it had only been a year. Since he was 22 and Dean was 26, they had been on the road together. They had that long. Dean forces himself to think that, to take deep steadying breaths even as he squeezes the sides of his chair so that each of his knuckles pops because he knows that he’s lying to himself. They DIDN'T have that long. As Castiel once more holds out the pills to Dean, he jumps, remembering where he is—and one of the chair’s sharp edges slices deep into the flesh of his fingers. This prompts Cas to grab his wrist as Dean raises it up and opens his palm.

“Dammit, Dean!” The nurse speaks loudly this time—well, loudly for Castiel, anyway—and one of the other nurses slams the door open like she needs to protect him from the crazy patient. “Meg, it’s all right. He didn’t hurt me.”

“He’s unhinged!” She snarls, dark eyes raking over Castiel’s entire frame to make sure that he’s telling the truth; he’s covered for Dean before, that time when Dean had actually hit him in the face. But Dean is better now—he really is, at least towards others. Whether he cares if he hurts himself is debatable, seeing as he is just staring at his bleeding fingers as if at a mildly intriguing nature program on TV.

“Wow, look at that, Cas. It’s a record for your girlfriend to get in here this fast. Maybe I should cut myself more often.” Meg glares at him, and Castiel whips around and grabs the back of Dean’s neck firmly, shocking even his fellow nurse into making a little gasp. 

“Don’t say that. Don’t you EVER say that, Dean.” He looks back over his shoulder at Meg. “Get me some bandages, please, Meg.” When she doesn’t immediately respond, his voice goes hard. “Now, Nurse Masters!” Her surname and title move her and her curls stream behind her as she quickly exits Dean’s room. The moment she’s gone, Castiel lets go of the nape of Dean’s neck and kneels down again to come face-to-face with him. “Why do you do this?” he asks, seeming both plaintive and desperate. “You aren’t crazy; you’re smarter than this, Dean.” Dean lets out a bitter laugh.

“No, Cas, I’m not smart. But this time I wasn’t actually trying to hurt myself—that was just an accident.” Then his brain catches up with the rest of what his nurse has just said. “Wait. Hold the fuck up. Did you just tell me that I wasn’t crazy?!”

“Yes, I did.”

“Well, in case you haven’t noticed our surroundings, pal, this is a MENTAL HOSPITAL.” Castiel nods solemnly.

“I know that.”

“Well then, boy, either you have ‘em all fooled or I do.” Dean leans back in his chair as much as he can, while his nurse keeps putting pressure on Dean’s hand and fingers to keep the skin closed until Meg returns with bandages. “You’ve read the police report; you’ve been in this room with me every day for the past month; and yet you don’t think I’m crazy.” Castiel just stares at him calmly. Dean doesn’t understand that. His nurse is absolutely serious, which makes a tiny flutter of hope appear in Dean’s chest, and that hope makes him feel helpless. Because once you begin to hope, you’re in for a whole world of pain. “Why?”

The door opens again, which stops Castiel from answering. That is all right with Dean. He doesn’t want to get his hopes up, anyway. What good will it do? His baby brother is still dead, after all. Nothing can change that. The nurse who comes in now isn’t Meg; it’s Garth. She must have found him in the hallway and promised to dump bedpans in the vegetable ward so he would have to bring the Band-Aids to Cas and Dean. If he wasn’t so miserable this fact would’ve made Dean smirk. As it is, he doesn’t even acknowledge Garth’s presence. That doesn’t stop Garth from grinning and saying,

“Howdy, Dean.” before handing the first-aid kit to his fellow nurse and adding, “That’s a fresh kit, Castiel, just in case. Do y’all need anything else?”

“I could use a shot of whiskey and a lap dance,” Dean grumbles. Castiel shakes his head as he places a clean rag under Dean’s freely-bleeding fingers and lays out rubbing alcohol, steri-strips, bandages, and cotton balls. Garth laughs.

“Don’t we all, Dean! I sure wish I could provide that for ya.” Still chuckling, he waves at the two of them and backs out. “I’ll see you boys around.”

“Goodbye, Garth,” says Cas as the door closes. He raises the bottle of rubbing alcohol toward his patient and utters, “This is the only alcohol I have around at the present moment, Dean. It isn’t whiskey, but…” he drips some of the transparent mixture onto a few cotton balls.

“…it’ll have to do.” Dean finishes for him. He is about to demand an explanation from the nurse about why exactly he doesn’t find Dean to be crazy, but Castiel presses the soft balls into Dean’s open wounds before he has a chance to ask, and Dean has to bite back a scream. This is terrible. He’s dealt with far worse shit than this ever since he was four years old; the first time he saved Sam from a fire. But not the second—Dean forces this thought out and tamps down on his awareness. He used to be able to do things like that easily. But being in this nuthouse has softened him up, made him that much more vulnerable to the hurts and needs of the flesh. He really does want a lap dance and a drink. He could also use a cheeseburger and then maybe even a blowjob. Wait. What the fuck is he thinking?? He doesn’t deserve any of that. He doesn’t deserve happiness, now that Sam is gone, and even Dean’s occupation has been taken from him. The only reason he hadn’t been in this shithole all that long was because he had creatures to fight, something to do. Ever since those damn Trials, though, since he couldn’t drag Sammy’s dumb ass out of the fire, he’s been on a steady slide downhill. This is a mantra that keeps repeating itself inside Dean’s head.

He’d bottomed out after coming here and meeting this nurse. If that isn’t the stupidest thing to push me completely over the edge, Dean thinks. But it had. It was bad enough that he couldn’t protect Sam to the last, but to have the person now taking care of HIM be a dead-ringer for an angel Dean had thought he’d known for six years—whose name had ALSO been Cas, Jesus—that coincidence had been his fill. It hurts even more because this Cas doesn’t know him like the other one did, but he is still so goddamn NICE to Dean anyway, even believing that he isn’t crazy. Lucky me, Dean thinks sarcastically. I have to find out that my angel fell to Earth, and that THIS guy has been working in this place for as long as I’ve known Cas, so there’s no fucking way it could be him. Even MY life isn’t that weird. 'Serendipitous,' says Sam’s voice in his head. 'That would be the proper word for this scenario, actually.' Shut your cakehole, bitch, Dean snaps at his brother in his head. 'Why don’t you make me, jerk?' Sam shoots back. Dean is about to laugh, but he gets snapped back to the present when Castiel wraps the excess bandages back into a roll and stands. Wait a minute, before he leaves. “Why is it that you don’t think I’m crazy, Cas?” Dean asks. He almost snaps at the nurse, only managing to soften his query with, “Please, man, I gotta know.” 

Nurse Castiel re-closes the door and kneels down to once more be level with Dean. He gets a tad too close, too, just the way angel Cas always did. It’s really fucking disconcerting, and is starting to grate on Dean’s nerves. He wishes this guy would come into work one day smacking gum or something, just so he could prove to himself that this is most definitely not his Cas. 'But other Cas wasn’t YOUR Cas either,' Sam points out reasonably. 'At least, not since you never told him that he was. You never made anything official, did you?' Yeah. He’s definitely completely sane, Dean decides sardonically. Everyone he knows has conversations with their deceased family members on a daily basis.

“Your story remains the same, Dean.” his nurse says, which reminds the Winchester that yes, he had actually asked a question and is going to get an answer if he can actually remain present through the entire fucking conversation. “Whenever one of the nurses speaks to you—and gets you to respond—your points always match up. You are firm, calm, and assured about everything that has happened to you. You do not play the victim.” Dean winces involuntarily. “See, you do not even care for the word. In all that you say, there are morals and solid edicts—you remain in the world without warping it to revolve around yourself, as do persons who are mentally deranged. You care deeply for the people close to you, particularly your brother, as I know from your file.” Despite the fact that my file also says I have paranoid schizophrenia AND narcissistic personality disorder? Dean shakes his head in wonder before he snarkily replies,

“Not from anything I say directly, eh?” Nurse Castiel smiles. “Well, that’s a relief. You wouldn’t want to get the story straight from THIS horse’s mouth.”

“Why not, Dean? I think I would like to hear more from you. It—it would be a relief to me, actually.”

“Oh really?” The patient leans forward and raises his eyebrows. This explanation oughta be good. His nurse sighs.

“Yes, really. I won’t judge you, Dean. I wish only to listen. It counts for a lot in this life when someone is willing to really, truly listen to us. The ear of a friend can make all the difference in the world.” Yes, it can, Dean thinks angrily. But I was too damn stubborn, for too damn long. Now the people I really need to talk to are long, long gone.

“I don’t have any friends left.” He spits out harshly. Charlie’s in Oz, his angel had fallen, and his brother is gone; him and Bobby, and Benny, and Kevin, and Ellen, and Jo.... The list has started scrolling through Dean’s head as it does whenever he tries to block out the underlying truth, the REAL reason he doesn’t want to tell his current companion anything, so that he nearly misses his nurse’s reply.

“You have me.” He speaks so firmly, so simply, as if there has never been and can never be any question about or doubt on this score. It’s SO MUCH like talking to feathered Cas that Dean cannot stop himself from reaching out and grasping the other man’s shoulder. He does remember where they are, though, and almost immediately lets go.

“Thank you, Nurse Castiel.”

“You are welcome, Mental Patient Winchester.” Dean chokes out a laugh. Nah, this guy is definitely not angelic Castiel—his sense of humor is a hell of a lot darker.


	2. Mental Cases

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean is forced to go out to the day room, where he makes/reunites with some old friends

~  
Dean can’t believe how no matter how fucked up everything is, he can actually get moderately used to living—or not living, even, just existing—in a place like this. It probably helps that a few years ago he and Sam had pretended they were nuts so they could hunt a wraith in one of these places. But he nevertheless finds himself greeting the nice nurses and checking out the cute ones. He also manages to get on some sort of terms with a few other patients. After he’d stayed in his room for almost four solid weeks, Castiel had come in looking determined—well, even more so than usual—and he and Garth bodily ushered Dean out of his voluntarily solitary confinement to sit in the dayroom with the other patients. 

“Just because, according to you, I'm apparently not crazy, doesn’t mean these other people want to mix with me,” Dean had protested, but his primary caregiver doesn’t give a shit about this or any of his other previous (admittedly extremely pathetic) excuses. Anyway, the first two people he comes across when he plops down in front of the tiny television are a surly hazel-eyed blonde and another, younger, genuinely kind blonde. The first one grunted in his direction, but the second brightly introduced herself as Joanna Beth Harvelle—Jo for short—and said that the monosyllabic woman’s name is Ruby. Dean doesn’t ask her what she’s in for, but that question is obviously stamped across his face, because Jo says,

“I have extreme CDO—which is OCD but with its letters in the CORRECT order—and anxiety. Ruby here doesn’t think she’s a human being. Apparently she USED to be one, but now she considers herself a demon.” Dean raises his eyebrows.

“Well, that’s—definitely not something I would want to openly confess.” Jo snorts.

“Yeah, really. If demons do exist, I would think they’d want to fly under the radar. Wouldn’t want priests to show up and perform exorcisms on them, right?”

“Right. So is that why she doesn’t talk? Doesn’t want to communicate with us mere mortals unless she absolutely has to?”

“Yeah, basically. She only lets herself be helped or talked to by the head nurse, Crowley. You need to watch out for him,” Jo adds in an undertone. “He’s Nurse Ratched caliber, you feel me?” Dean nods solemnly. “Well anyway, I’ve gotta go back to my room now. This was my scheduled break from my schedule.” Dean can’t tell if Jo is joking or not. Before he gets a chance to ask about it, a motherly nurse named Ellen comes up behind Jo’s chair and smiles down at her.

“Ready to roll, darlin’?” She asks the young patient.

“Yeah, I’m all set here. Nice to meet you, Dean.”

“The pleasure was all mine, Jo.” He winks at her, and his casual flirting makes her giggle. After she leaves, Dean focuses his eyes on the TV once more, meanwhile taking careful stock of Ruby. He doesn’t want to alarm Jo, since she already has high anxiety; but since he knows that demons ARE real, he is going to keep a close eye on the sullen girl. Too bad since he’s in here he can’t be sure if she is really a demon or not. 

He meets a couple of guys next—Victor and Andy are their names. Dean isn’t quite sure what Victor’s deal is, but Andy is all over the place. He thinks he has some sort of extrasensory perception that allows him to project images, thoughts, and urges into other people’s minds. He uses Victor to illustrate this, and asks the other man how he’s currently feeling. Victor turns his head smoothly and stares at Andy without any expression on his dark face before he says,

“Right now I’m feeling like I want to whup your ass.” Andy fidgets and chuckles nervously.

“See, Dean? Exactly where I wanted his mind to be,” after which Victor simply shakes his head slowly. Dean acts like he believes it, which pacifies Andy. The jumpy guy then goes over to try to flirt with Nurse Meg, which is a terrible idea as far as Dean is concerned, but he admires the jumbo-coconut balls that give the kid the guts to try it. He sidles over to Victor and nods. Victor is watching Andy’s antics with the barest hint of amusement in his dark eyes, before noticing Dean’s nearness and sniffing derisively.

“You aren’t gonna ask me what I’m in here for, then?”

“Nope.”

“Don’t have the smallest bit of curiosity, eh?”

“No; I just don’t allow myself to care about your or anybody’s problems. If I did, I’d get obsessive and wouldn’t ever fucking stop. I’m a cop. Trained to do that sort of shit.” Dean whistles and nods in response.

“Well, consider me warned.” A flash of teeth brightens Victor’s inscrutable face.

“You bet your ass. Every other cop in my precinct signed an order to get me put in here. You know how hard it is to get that many cops to work together?”

“You must’ve really pissed some people off.”

“Nah, I just scared the shit outta ‘em. There’s a difference. Most cops, if they get obsessed about a case, cool off once they’re sent out on another assignment, like traffic assessment. Not me. I get even more driven and focused. It got so even my partner was afraid to talk to me. Some working environment.” 

“I’m lucky I never had to deal with that.”

“What was your job like, then?”

“I worked with my brother. It was the two of us driving around the country together in a 1967 Chevy Impala. We got pissed at each other, sure, but he couldn’t fire me and I couldn’t fire him. We tried a few times, but one always ended up coming back to look after the other.” He says it so surely that he almost believes it himself. 

“Must be nice.” Victor’s voice doesn’t sound like he cares, but that doesn’t matter. Cas was right—sometimes it’s good just to talk to somebody, even if he doesn’t go too deep. 

“It was.” Dean’s jaw is now tight. He swallows and clicks his tongue in an attempt to loosen it. “Well, ‘nice’ wasn’t always the best word for it; but yeah, we watched each other’s backs.”

“So you’re in here because your brother’s gone.” It isn’t a question, but burns straight through Dean anyway, just like the heat did on that dreadful night.... How obvious he must be even to these crazies. Hell, maybe they’re not crazy either; is Dean’s next thought. Maybe they’re all like me, living in a reality that the majority of the population is unable to comprehend. Ain’t that a bitch.


	3. Observation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean is put under observation for the night by his duty nurse because of the finger fiasco from before. During the night, he has a *few* detrimental dream(s).

~  
Dean hates to admit it, even to himself, but after Jo mentioned Nurse Ratched, he actually wants to come into some sort of personal contact with Crowley. Just to see how bad he really is. He also wants to figure out why and how the hell everyone in this place is a doppleganger for someone he knew in his past life. Dean has to think of it as his past life because there is nothing of that existence left without Sammy. 'And you always called ME melodramatic,' his brother would say with a roll of his eyes. 

It doesn’t make sense. He can’t tell anyone, not even Cas, though his nurse hasn’t stopped coming to see him and listen to his delusions that apparently aren’t delusions. The nurse doesn’t even take notes anymore; not since that first day when he wrote an itinerary of some sort for Head Nurse Crowley. Opening up the floodgates isn’t easy. Dean doesn’t even attempt to open them fully; he more-or-less pokes a single pinhole in a dike rather than blowing a gigantic hole completely through the dam. He can’t bring himself to do that with anyone; not his primary care nurse—not even to him. 

Dean does realize that Castiel can be a comfort, though, since after the whole accidently-cutting-his-fingers-to-the-bone fiasco Nurse Meg had tattled to the head nurse, and Garth had come into the room later that afternoon to relieve Cas for a moment because

“DK’s got a job for you,” which when Dean had bugged him about it for long enough, Garth finally admitted in an undertone that DK meant Demon King—the name most of the nurses had given to Crowley after being in the same hospital with him for less than a week. This makes Dean even more interested to meet the bastard, but no such luck…Cas comes back and informs Dean that he will have to spend the night in his room with him "for observation". His face looks so pinched and serious about the ramifications of this assignment that Dean just HAS to crack,

“Well, if you wanted to sleep with me, all you had to do was ask!” His nurse tilts his head and squints just like angelic Castiel again, and dammit that should not be so adorable, and then Garth quickly excuses himself. Before things get too incredibly awkward, Dean adds, “I’m guessing the Heinous Nitwit put you up to this?” and is rewarded with an upward twitch of the other man’s thin lips before he sounds serious.

“This is standard procedure, Dean.”

“What, if one of the patients tries to off himself?” Dean jerks his shoulder irritably. “Didn’t I explain that well enough?”

“To me, you did,” returns Cas gently, “but unfortunately, that is not the proper protocol. Even if a patient’s word is good—and I believe there is no word better than yours—acting upon that word without going through appropriate channels could be disastrous.” Dean snorts.

“Enough with the psychiatric bureaucratic mumbo-jumbo, Cas. Just say it. You could get sued, right?”

“Not me personally, but this institution could, yes.”

“Does it matter to anybody that I don’t HAVE anyone who’s alive that cares about me enough to do the suing?!” Dean grumbles. He pinches the bridge of his nose with a thumb and forefinger before raising his eyes to see his nurse gazing at him with such compassion that it puts a lump in Dean’s throat. Castiel pats him gently on the shoulder before reminding,

“I will be back after 10 o’clock to stay with you, Dean.”

“I’ll be here,” the Winchester man cracks.

And he is. All Dean’s done is moved out of his chair to sit on the cot-like bed; which isn’t all that uncomfortable if you’re used to sleeping in ratty hotel rooms like Dean is, but he can’t get comfortable on it tonight, and so is sitting there with his back against the wall and his legs stretched straight out in front of him when Castiel arrives. The nurse drags a chair over to sit across from the bed and says

“Hello, Dean.”

“Hey, Cas. How was the rest of your day workin’ with the nutjobs?”

“That is not a politically correct statement.”

“Oh hell, man, you know me by now—I couldn’t even be politically correct to save my ass from a demon. That was always Sam’s—” He breaks off and feels himself shaking. Dammit. This is gonna be a lonnng night if he can’t control himself at the outset of it. “Uh, anyway, do you know where I can get a good rare steak around here? And some garlic mashed potatoes maybe? Or pie? Love me some pie.” Cas looks at him steadily, not fooled for one second by Dean’s abrupt change of subject, and man, Dean is really annoyed by that—even as it relieves him that he can’t fool this man, as he could never fool other Cas or Sam with all of the lightheartedness in the world.

“The other patients are fine. Jo Harvelle asked about you, as did Victor Henrikson. I am pleased that you’ve begun to make friends. And I am not sure about the steak; we have a rather basic kitchen setup in the institution. If you wish, I could bring something in when I arrive tomorrow morning. It would take an extra-long screening though.”

“Really, Cas?” Dean is rather touched. “You would do that for me? It’s been a hell of a long time since I’ve eaten a decent steak.” The nurse smiles at him.

“Of course, Dean.”

“Thanks, dude.” He suddenly remembers something that should’ve been obvious the very minute Cas told him about the observation earlier that day. “Wait a minute. How’d you get this thankless night job since you’re normally just a day nurse?” Dean is well aware of Castiel’s typical position because he’s begun a bit of a running gag with the night nurses by singing ‘Eye of the Tiger’ or ‘Hey Jude’ loud enough to get Nurse Moseley to yell at him,

“Boy, you’d better knock it off!” Nurse Jody normally just laughs and hums along with Dean, but Nurse Moseley is downright scary. Stout and tough with a stare that can see through any patient’s evasions or lies, the middle-aged woman knows EXACTLY what’s up with Dean, and that really throws him off. Today, though, Castiel is here which—he can’t help himself—he is glad about.

“Since I am the primary practitioner in charge of your care and the one who was present during the ordeal for which this observation is needed, I was happy to volunteer to stay with you tonight.” 

“You mean Crowley didn’t force you to do it?”

“He suggested that I do it to follow procedure, but there would be a way for one to volunteer another nurse if the observation made them uncomfortable. It does not bother me, however.” 

“Not at all?” Dean makes a face and raises an eyebrow. Castiel doesn’t continue the joke, but simply stares into his patient's eyes seriously.

“Not at all, Dean.” 

“Why the hell not?” He doesn’t need this pity, or whatever it is that keeps Castiel coming to listen to him and be supportive and sensitive and whatever. But the nurse shows no trace of pity now; his face is open and honest as he says,

“Because I like you.” They talk for a while until Dean feels himself beginning to feel fuzzy and is ready to nod off. He doesn’t know if he’s imagining it, but it feels as though Castiel gently covers him with a warm blanket before he completely conks out. 

…

Later he finds himself sweating and stands up. It’s dark around him at first, but then he starts to see a warm orange-yellow flickering at the edges of his vision and oh no. Please, God, no—Dean is in that house again, spinning around and forcing his way down the smoke-filled hallway, sweating in his leather jacket, heart pounding as he tries to scream his baby brother’s name, but only hears his voice break pathetically. He finally makes it to Sam’s closed bedroom door and hears the anguished cries of “Help! Please, God, someone—”

“Sam!!!” Dean at last gets out, and his brother hears him; at least it gets quiet, deathly quiet for a moment—no, shut up brain—except for the crackling of flames and whoosh of air that breaks glass in some distant windows.

“Dean? Is that you?”

“Yes!” Dean nearly sobs with his throat raw from the smoke. “I’m gonna get you out.” 

“Hurry,” Sam responds frantically. “Jess, she—I think she’s inhaled too much smoke or something, she seems woozy, I…” Then Dean hears a girl’s voice, sharp and unmistakable.

“Shut up, Sam. I’m fine. Just open that damn door!” He hears his brother slam his bulk into the door and then he tries to kick it in with his feet in his own turn but can’t and his vision is tunneling and he can’t get enough air, otherwise he would probably make a joke about Sam being a whipped boyfriend. But this isn’t the best time.

“I can’t move it!” comes Sam’s frantic voice. “Maybe the window—” but he cannot do anything with that either, judging by the grunting and swearing that Dean hears. He feels himself begin shaking and he slams his palms flat into the immobile wood of the door. “Oh, God,” says Sam as he comes back over to lean into the opposite side of the door.

“Sam. Sammy, I’m—I’m so sorry,” Dean’s voice trembles as he tries to make sure his brother hears.

“It’s okay, Dean. You hear me? Are you still there? Dean?”

“I’m—I’m here.”

“Then you’ve got to go, get out now!”

“I’m not leaving you, dammit!”

“It’s over for me; it doesn’t have to be for you!” He is silent for a moment and Dean feels himself start to sob, the tears evaporating on his cheeks the very instant they fall. Then Sam speaks once more: “I love you, big brother.” No. No no no—Dean slams his fists into the door until he feels as if it must surely break, slivers and splinters flying, but nothing happens except his hands go numb and then there is this burning pain in his chest; though that could be the flames, he feels as though his heart is shriveling and blowing away like ash but then he jerks forward and up with a gasp as a heavy hand grips his shoulder and he knows it’s a fireman and no, they have to save Sam and Jessica, just break through the door, leave him, leave him, leave him…. There is blackness and then more burning and he’s thrown down, somehow he’s outside the dorm now and someone is smothering him in blankets—they must be soaked in fire-retardant, but he’s screaming go, go back in and get Sam, save him I don’t deserve it!!! I don’t care but he does he does he—

“Dean. Wake up, Dean.” The voice is deep and firm and urgent, and Dean wakes, flying out from under the smothering heavy blanket and landing on his hands and knees on the floor with sweat saturating his t-shirt, panting, gasping, trying to breathe and Cas is bending over him, straightening his back, saying “Take deep lungfuls of air, out and in. That’s it, Dean.” No. he doesn’t want to; he stretches his right arm out feebly and croaks,

“Don’t. Just leave me alone, Cas.”

“No, that I will not do. I am here, Dean. I will stay and watch over you.” He gets down on his knees and cups Dean’s face in his hands. Dean bites his lips and sucks in a breath before giving into the sobs. They shudder and rip and tear through his chest and throat and he completely loses any strength that he might have had left before falling forward. Castiel gently cups the side of his face and presses Dean into his torso, as if he can somehow shelter and protect him from the nightmare he had just woken up from—but what the nurse doesn’t know is that it wasn’t just a dream. 

Dean feels his stomach knot and curl in on itself sickly. He knows that his nurse is going to ask what he was dreaming about, and why it affected him the way it had, and he doesn’t want to say it; he can’t bring himself to admit out loud the REAL reason he is here in this damn place. The reason that he has covered up with layers of lies and webs of stories about vamps and wendigoes and shifters: because he and Sam HADN’T had the past ten years together; the last time he’d seen his brother alive had been when he was 26 and Sam was 22. And he’s still here, only a few miles from the university—God, why did they have to admit him into a place so close, so horribly close to Stanford?! The rational part of Dean’s brain tells him the truth: it was because he had not explained to anyone the nature of his attachment to the place and why he needs to keep himself disassociated from it as well as from the past that threatens to break through his mental defenses every day, every moment that he remains here.

Castiel doesn’t do any of those things at the present, though. he knows that he will have to write in his report of tonight’s observation that he witnessed Dean Winchester have a breakdown after a dream, but he sees no reason to begin any of his official duties at this point. His patient needs him. No; DEAN needs him, and the nurse cares for this man as an individual person, a friend, more than as a patient. So he sits on the floor silently, holding the broken man to his chest firmly and gently rocks him back and forth. One arm is wrapped around Dean’s shoulders and the other hand cups his face and neck, thumb gently stroking soothing circles onto the skin of Dean’s nape.

After what seems like an eternity, Castiel rises and says, “Excuse me for a moment, Dean. I shall soon return.” Dean stays frozen in place on the floor next to the bed. He tries to make himself acknowledge the nurse’s words or move himself even an inch, but cannot. He is too mentally and emotionally drained to do anything other than sit upon the cold floor that is causing his limbs to cramp up more every minute. Castiel comes back lugging a large pad that looks like one of those things people would bring on a camping trip and spread upon the ground to make sleeping more comfortable. For patients here, it’s probably meant for the ones who flop around spasmodically and cannot control their movements; thus this pad would be large enough to keep them from injuring themselves in their sleep. Dean cannot find it in himself to make a joke or to be offended. He watches Cas spread out the monstrosity alongside his cot before the nurse strips off his white coat and turns down the lights. With a simple explanation of, “I have disabled the recording devices and am going to rest here with you tonight, Dean,” the nurse somehow makes something that probably should be weird feel not weird at all. Dean still cannot find the strength to make his limbs move; he only nods and collapses onto the mat. Since his shirt was saturated with sweat, the nurse suggested he remove it; and after a second Dean says okay as long as that wouldn’t be too weird. Cas smiles slightly. “I am a nurse practitioner, Dean. I have seen the unclothed torsos of many men.” Carefully not thinking too hard about that statement, Dean takes off the shirt and lies back down on the mat. Castiel covers him in a blanket again.

“Thanks,” Dean mumbles. “G’night, Cas.”

“Good night, Dean.” The nurse sits cross-legged, soothing the patient with his presence and the strength and pressure of his thin fingers curling around Dean’s shoulder whenever the Winchester tosses and turns. Later in the night, Dean half wakes again, only to realize that his lower half is swaddled tightly in blankets and that he’d snuggled up next to—practically on TOP of—his nurse, who had gone from sitting to lying down beside Dean; guarding and protecting the patient from any more intrusive dreams. Dean has apparently been using Castiel’s chest and shoulder as a pillow. He should be scandalized by this realization, but he’s still tired and Cas looks…comfortable. Plus the nurse makes little noises in his sleep that Dean does NOT find adorable; not at all, damn it. As he carefully lies back down, trying to get comfortable again, Cas moves to accommodate him, a hand curling around Dean’s waist and pulling him back to nestle snugly against the nurse’s chest. Castiel’s head falls upon Dean’s right shoulder, and a warm huff of breath gently caresses the patient’s neck. He tries to move away, but the nurse only grips him tighter and Dean finally mutters,

“Ah, screw it,” before relaxing into the other man and closing his forest-green eyes. The next day there is going to be a lot of explaining to do since Cas had disabled the audio and video recording systems connected to Dean’s room, but the nurse is equal to that. He only wants to help Dean, to heal him and give him peace—and however that occurs, Castiel lets his patient move at his own pace. He knows the dream Dean had is important, even vital to his recovery, but he recognizes that he will only stagnate said recovery if he presses Dean too much. Cas has done enough, Dean thinks in glad surprise. He hazily remembers the nurse holding him during the night after bringing in that pad…which had been rather comfortable, actually. He respects Castiel for not immediately demanding to know what the dream was about, to try to instantly “cure” him; as though he already knows Dean well enough to recognize his inherent distrust of people who do things like that.


	4. Therapy Session

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is Dean's first official meeting with the dreaded Head Nurse, and drama/trauma ensues.

~  
It’s after 4pm—that means, going by the typical schedule, Cas, Garth, Meg, and Ellen are off the floor—Jody, Nurse Moseley {Dean doesn’t think of her by her first name, Missouri, because he’s pretty sure she’d ice him and dice him if he were ever to use it}, Pamela, and Ava arrive to begin the evening to night shift. Ava and sometimes Jody will stay on until the graveyard shift when Gordon, Bela, and Ash come in. Sometimes they switch out; today Bela is here with Jody, Pamela, and Ash. It’s funny how much Dean has started to notice things like this; because after Castiel bids him “Good evening”, says “I will see you tomorrow morning, Dean. Be well.” And closes the door behind him; after the day shift ends, Dean feels a deep sense of loss. Which is completely ridiculous—he knows that his primary nurse will return on the following day, and that it’s his JOB to take care of Dean, so he has a life outside this nuthouse, a home to go to every night. Probably even a family—the patient always cuts himself off at this point. He won’t begrudge his caregiver any of that; if he did, that would make him the biggest asshole in the world {Second only to George Lucas in that moment he decided to sign over Star Wars to the evil conglomerate creative castrator corporation, Disney. Or maybe he’d be as big of an asshole as Crowley, which Dean will only know for sure if he ever meets the guy}. He doesn’t. It’s just—he likes Cas. Feels comfortable with him. So it’s a stab to the gut when that exit door closes and he’s gone.

“That’s so cute. Don’t worry, Dean,” snickers Jo one evening after Castiel waves and departs. “He’ll be back.”

“Who says I’m worried?” Dean shoots back at her as he leans over the back of the couch. Ruby snorts quietly.

“Only everybody on the damn ward,” calls Victor almost cheerfully from the corner where he consistently leans. “You’re like a metronome, tuned to that nurse’s every move, man.” Dean grows shifty. This is great, now the COP is on his case.

“What, is that a problem? I’ve gotta watch the guy, he’s the person who shoves pills down my throat and brings me food and who’d put on my diaper for me if I wasn’t toilet-trained.” He’s being a dick and he knows it, and Cas will know it too if he goes through the dayroom’s audio files at any point. But at this juncture, Dean really doesn’t give a shit. He’s tired and cranky and just wants OUT. Never mind the fact that since EVERYONE apparently notices how focused he is on Cas, they might have caught wind of some deeper feelings that Dean can’t—or doesn’t want to—express. Jo punches him in the arm to get him to listen to her.

“Come on Dean, we’re just kidding! Just because we’re all crazy doesn’t mean we can’t have fun messing around once in a while.” Dean raises his eyebrows at her.

“What, are you bored too?”

“I feel useless as a bump on a log,” admits Jo.

“Well you won’t be bored for long,” Nurse Bela sings out as she passes by carrying a chair. “It’s time for a Group Therapy session.” These sessions occur once every week, but always on a different day so the patients are never able to be completely prepared. It is an inverted relationship to healing by relating to each other. The patients are forced instead to put their selves out in front of everyone, outlining issues in terms of how they are wrong or unhealthy for the rest of society. Head Nurse Crowley and Doctor Abaddon monitor these meetings. The other nurses remain in their station to do work or take notes. These are not the primary care nurses, however, and so they are not instantly aware if something is off or wrong with the actions or reactions of patients to the head nurse’s queries. As a response to this, Dean smells trouble. This is the first meeting he’s been to since coming here, because for the previous month he’d been so volatile that most of the nurses were concerned for their or other patients’ well-being. Now that he’s established that the only person he endangers is himself, they feel it’s all right to let him in the room for one.

Nurse Crowley is an imposing smarmy hulk of a man. His British accent and refined manners make him appear complimentary even when he is putting you down. He starts in on Andy immediately. Despite Doc Abaddon being the highest rank in this room, she’s perfectly content to let the DK head nurse have free rein with the patients. Jo grabs Dean’s hand—she is sitting next to him—and starts squeezing the shit out of it. He lets her because he too is getting a tad freaked out as Andy grows more and more subdued. The kid is always energetic and jittery, but the longer Crowley stays on him, rubbing his nose in the worst aspects of himself, the more he shuts down. Ruby leans back, looks through her lowered lashes, and smirks. Victor is as inscrutable as ever, but Dean thinks there may be a bit more tension in his jaw than usual. Andy shrivels the longer Crowley looks at him…he is dissolving before Dean’s very eyes. The Winchester has to do something. He squeezes Jo’s hand back once before letting go, ignoring her warning whisper of “Dean—Dean, no!” He clears his throat and, before anyone makes any attempt to respond, commences to stand.

“Now, this is just peachy. You’ve got a nice little setup here, Head Nurse, to get all us patients to spill our guts and you—both of you—can just lap it up.”

“Ah. Mr. –Winchester, is it? Be that as it may, that is only your personal opinion, and there is a PROCEDURE to these meetings, so if you would raise your hand and remain in your seat, I promise we will get to you in a moment.” Crowley turns to ask Andy another question as Dean sits, sighs explosively, and raises his hand. “Ye-es, Mr. Winchester?”

“First off, I’m not Mr. Winchester. The last guy in my family to use that level of formality was probably my grandfather. My name is Dean. Second, I for one have heard enough about Andy’s issues. What I wanna know is, what is he GOOD at? Foosball? Physics? Me, I know movies. Can probably answer any question about action heroes or sci-fi flicks. Even the crap ones. And I’m good with cars. I can change a tire in 20 seconds and know if a problem is with the transmission or the battery the second I turn the key. I thought the purpose of this place was to help us deal with our problems and find a way to be productive in society?”

“It is. And why would you say that outlining the problems that hold us back is NOT helpful in that regard, Mr. –I’m sorry, Dean?” Dean gestures around at the other patients.

“Dude, we KNOW why we’re here. We know all about the shit inside our heads. To tell you the truth, I had to think hard to come up with two things I was good at because I’ve been banging my head against the wall of crazy back in my room, and I’ve only been here for a month! If it’s that hard for me, I bet it’s a hell of a lot harder for everyone else. Right, Jo?” he looks over at her where she sits frozen. “How long you been in here, anyway?” She swallows and at last gets out,

“Five months.”

“Woo-eee! And can you remember what you were good at Outside?” Jo bites her lip in thought.

“Um…I worked in my mom’s restaurant as a waitress. I was decent at mixing drinks.” Dean’s eyebrow rises.

“Really? Damn, girl, where’ve you been all my life?” She blushes but manages to tease,

“Probably either behind a bar or at a pool table hustling the hustlers.” Jo looks at Dean sideways.

“Why are you looking at me like that? You think I’m a pool shark?!”

“IF the shoe fits…”

“You are both hella lucky I’ve quit my day job,” interjects Victor. Dean grins broadly.

“Oh yeah, Victor here is a cop! I almost completely forgot. And did you just use the word ‘hella’?” Ruby looks even more amused and Andy has calmed down enough by now to start snickering. Dean widens his eyes at each of them in turn. “He did, didn’t he? Holy shit, I can’t believe that, man.” The cop rolls his eyes and lets out a long-suffering sigh. The doctor clears her throat loudly and Crowley coolly says,

“Now that you’ve had that intriguing little discussion, would it be all right for us to get back to the meeting?”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” gushes Dean. “Really, I’m so sorry that I’ve wasted your precious time, Nurse Crowley. I feel kinda bad.”

“That’s quite all right, Dean.”

“Really, I just feel awful, I’m—” He’s stalling like a champion because he knows these things only last 45 minutes and when they’re done, they’re done until the following week. Andy and Jo give each other sly looks. They know it too. Crowley’s face darkens. This new patient is obviously going to be a problem on the ward. Doctor Abaddon jiggles one powerful thigh, her pointed high heel tapping a jerky rhythm against the front leg of her chair. Dean notices her actions and smirks. “Are you having a little anxiety there, Doc? Don’t worry; I’m sure the Nurse’s Station can prescribe you some pills. They’re super good at that.” His voice has gone hard, as he knows that some of the nurses have the tendency to over-medicate rather than finding ways to calm reactive patients without forcing them into a comatose haze of hallucinogenic drugs. Castiel doesn’t do this. Neither does Garth, Jody, Nurse Moseley, or Ellen. It is Ava, Meg, Bela, Gordon, and Ash—he only because of his absent-mindedness—who are the people that medicate and re-medicate…under Head Nurse Crowley’s orders, he’ll bet. This is even more obvious now that Dean sees the nurse’s face freeze before he dismisses the doctor and the other patients, coming over solo, mano a mano, to speak with Dean. It makes him remember that, no matter how tough he was during the meeting or how many sly looks Andy and Jo gave each other on his behalf, no one can directly intercede with the hospital personnel on behalf of a patient.

“Mr. Winchester. I’m sorry, DEAN. Listen very carefully to me here.” Crowley says slowly. “I know you think you’ve won a little victory over me and the doctor with the stunt you just pulled. But this was your first meeting. That isn’t going to fly in this ward, and I’m on to you now. This little game you think you’re an expert at playing? Ooh, it’s so much more complex than you realize. And you might regret so impulsively leaping into it.” His eyes are hooded, fierce. Dean doesn’t stop to think; he’s dealt with things like this, people like this, monsters like this man before. He steps in, chest-to-chest with the practitioner.

“Are you threatening me, Head Nurse? Trying to scare me off? Well let me tell you something, sir: I don’t scare easy. And I’d say YOU might want to worry about countering MY moves in ‘this little game’ we're apparently playing.” He grins in almost a feral fashion. Crowley steps back with…is that triumph in his eyes? What the hell? Dean has only a second to try to figure it out before the nurse barks into the deathly-silent room, which has become so in the space of the last several seconds:

“We’ve got a volatile patient here that needs to be taken up to Disturbed.” The muscle-bound jerks who work with ‘problem patients’, Uriel and Michael, stomp in and begin frog-marching Dean towards the stainless-steel double doors that lead into the rest of the hospital building. He grins and winks at Crowley over his shoulder. The nurse continues: “And keep him there for a few days. Induce EST. That may teach him some respect.” Uriel grunts and Michael nods, which is the closest they can probably come to intelligent speech. The last thing Dean sees before the doors close is Jo’s terrified, anguished face. He tries to smile at her, give her the peace sign or a thumbs-up, but she only stares at him with tears in her eyes. Her fear is for me, Dean realizes suddenly. She’s not worried about being on the ward with that jackass, she’s worried about ME. Why? Wrap me in a straitjacket and stash me in a padded room for two days is what they’re gonna do. I heard the asshat: extended stay. Well, I may as well make myself at home....


	5. Up to Disturbed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After his insubordination during the Group Therapy Session, Dean Winchester is sent to the hospital's Disturbed Ward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This contains the use (and possible results) of EST--electro-shock therapy--so be warned.

~  
The Disturbed Ward smells like piss. Old piss and stale cigarettes. And fear, clammy aching endless fear. Death is in the background, lurking around in the dusty corners and on the darkest shelves, hovering over and then clutching onto the gowns of the patients. And no one realizes it. Or if they do, they have somehow managed to train themselves to live with it. Or ignore it. Dean cannot. The minute they haul him into the ward on a gurney (because he had kicked Michael in the shins while they were in the hallway before making a break for it), he tries to back up; as they unclasp the belts that held his arms and legs still upon the stretcher, he flips off the flat surface and onto the floor, crouched and instantly ready to run for it. Flight mode. It’s often served him well over the years. He’s not lucky today, though. After he takes one step there is a fist in Dean’s gut and he’s gasping, winded, doubled over and trying desperately not to throw up. Michael is the culprit, and he does not appear sorry to use force on the patient. Asshole. 

As Dean gasps for air, Uriel goes over to the enclosed office on this floor to hand over the patient’s chart. Dean’s stomach aches and twinges when he sees Castiel’s tiny careful handwriting upon the papers that muscle-y jerk is handing over. He wishes Cas were here right now, but it’s about 6:30 or so, which means his nurse is probably sitting down to eat dinner with his wife and daughter. Dean bets he has them, and that he came in wearing that dapper suit that Dean had seen him in the one time he peeked out the exit door when Castiel was leaving…. Anyway, he’d kiss his wife on the cheek and tenderly touch her pregnant belly before stroking back his daughter’s hair and asking her how school was today as he checks out the homework she’s doing at the kitchen table. Then he washes his hands and helps his wife chop up vegetables, joking about his own day, the problematic patient that he deals with, the asinine head nurse…until dinner is nearly ready and he shoos his daughter up to wash her hands, gathers up her homework for her— “Be careful, Daddy! The glue’s not dry yet, see?”—and sets the table, making everything look just right. They say Grace with bowed heads, and Cas’s deep voice soars over the truly faithful words that he doubtless says every day. He tells his wife that dinner smells delicious, and he doesn’t know how she had the time to cook with all the errands she had to run and work she needed to do, and she snarkily tells him to stop ass-kissing and eat his food before it gets cold. Their daughter complains about the green beans in the casserole, and her mom tells her she has to eat AT LEAST five, while Castiel sneaks two off his daughter’s plate to eat them himself and help her out. She giggles and he nudges her affectionately. His wife shakes her head disapprovingly, and to get back in her good graces, Cas voluntarily washes the dishes before helping his daughter finish her homework and carrying her up to bed when she falls asleep over it. 

Dean’s making up this story in his head, a Day In The Life Of Nurse Castiel—OUTSIDE, when Uriel comes back and the giant freaks frog-march him again down the hall and into a room with a large slab-like table where enormous buckles are fixed in places that are arranged in a sinister pattern…kind of like a cross. And boy is he right about that being sinister. Two go around his wrists; one around each upper arm, one around his waist, one around the middle of each thigh, and two more upon his ankles. Then this cold feeling comes as what looks like cattle prods are pressed into his temples, and he hollers and jerks and yells and screams, but no one comes other than the technician and the two goons. He tries to remain in Castiel’s world, to return somewhere safe—imagined safety is better than none at all.

Flashes, pain, sizzling, sharp cold pinpricks is what the device feels like at first, but then they get sharper and hotter and closer together, and he is screaming and wrenching around like that time he was possessed by a demon—oh it HURTS—or that time he cut his knee when he was three and his mom bandaged it for him only after yanking out all the pieces of sidewalk grit; the time he got too close to a light socket and got zapped; the time Sam blew a fuse in the hotel where they were staying because he was attempting to plug his laptop in. They got an angry call from the building manager after that incident, and Dad had cussed him out. Dean remembers being really proud of his father and also smug because he’d learned a lot of new curse words. Who knew calling someone a "wingnut-eared bastard" could be so satisfying? Dean arches his back, the shackles creaking but holding firm, his tongue tasting metallic and feeling as hard as stone; don’t think about the pain, don’t think don’t think—think about Cas carrying his daughter upstairs to bed and tucking her in before going back downstairs to watch David Letterman on the sofa with his wife snuggled up next to him, her head tucked under his chin, those thin strong gentle fingers of his wrapped around her back, his beautiful blue eyes gazing into hers…those thin lips that speak the kindest words and most likely end up doing the dirtiest things once the lights go out in their bedroom…he feels himself getting ANGRY about that, for God’s sake, as his heart pumps and his head sparks with the power of the electric shocks and his body is spasming and drooling and he thinks he might’ve even peed himself, like that time when he’d been hit by a car and Sam came up and grabbed him, too late too late then, and he was shot by a mugger and dead for half a year because of that damn trickster—but no, Sam had died in a fire that Dean had started—shut up shut up SHUT UP! nO I’M TELLING YOU THE TRUTH GO BACK IN THERE AND GET HIM DON’T BOTHER WITH ME!!—I don’t think you’re crazy, Dean; that makes one of us. Remember the rules, son; yeah Dad I know: lock the doors, shoot first and ask questions later, and watch out for Sammy. That’s right, that’s it, but I failed, Dad, I couldn’t do it I needed you I always needed you and WHERE WERE YOU?! Hunting or drinking or sleeping or taking care of Sam yourself. I was never there, I was never your kid; I was the young soldier that you polished up, taught all the worst shit, the immoral shit, the shit no one should ever have to do or think to do, I had to do it for you. Why? What for? Where has it gotten me?! Into a NUTHOUSE, Dad! I hope you’re happy wherever you are right now. I hope you’re laughing your ass off sitting on a cloud wearing a halo; I hope you break your harp and fall out of the sky you selfish bastard—oh it’s like lightning going through my head make it stop make it stop oh god oh god oh god PLEASE!!!

…

Numbness.

That’s all he feels for the next few days—in between shock treatments they put him into the Seclusion Room, an actual padded room like you saw in the old nuthouses from the 50s and 60s. There he would sit while feeling a buzzing in his temples and the pain would ping really hard if he tried to move too much. His eyes are half-closed and he feels drool dripping out of the side of his mouth. That’s disgusting, wipe it off, Dean. 'Would you mind closing your mouth while you’re chewing?!' Demands Sam. 'I’m trying to focus over here and I can’t do that with you smacking down that burger right in my face.' No, I don’t mind, he replies then with a shit-eating grin on his face. Sammy only sighs. Dean tries to say that now, to make some sort of noise, let them know he’s still alive in here; he’s kicking—slowly, but that goddamn shock therapy hadn’t permanently scrambled his brain, dammit—and he thinks it worked, it must’ve worked, because here comes Cas, his eyes wide, face white, and trench coat flying—where is his pristine nurse’s jacket? Dean wonders hazily. Then Cas is kneeling in front of him, looking into his eyes, touching his cheek, peering under his eyelids, saying “Oh, Dean,” so heartbroken and compassionate that Dean feels as if his already shattered heart could somehow split in two. What’s going on, man? He wants to ask Cas, but his voice won’t work. “What are you still doing in this room? Come on, I’ve got you; let’s take you back downstairs.”

…

“What do you mean, you couldn’t save Sam?” Castiel asks now. They are in Dean’s regular room again, thank God. Dean never thought he would think of any part of this place as a safe haven, but that’s the way he feels in this room—despite the question his nurse is currently asking him. Dean only stares at him in silence. Castiel, willfully or not, misunderstands the look on his patient’s face and explains: “When I came to see you in Seclusion upstairs, you were muttering things. You kept saying ‘it’s my fault’ and ‘go back and get him’ and ‘why would they put me here? It’s too close to the fire’. I thought you meant the treatment was the fire, but that isn’t the word any other patient has used to describe what EST felt like. They all say it’s like lightning. So I decided you must have meant something else. What did you mean?” Damn, he’s too smart, always too smart; just like Sammy is. Was. Like Sam was. Dean blinks, and a single tear slides down his face. The nurse is sitting across from him as always, and he leans forward and wipes the tear away with his thumb. And for some reason, that tender, gentle gesture breaks something inside Dean. The resistance that had kept him shielded from—and stopped him from speaking—the complete truth to anyone now, at last, crumbles and blows away like dust in the wind.

“It’s my fault, Cas.” Dean mutters, so quietly that the nurse leans even closer to hear him. “You wanna know the last time I ACTUALLY saw Sam? October 31st, 2005. Halloween night. I went to visit him at Stanford. I don’t know what I was thinking…hadn’t seen the kid since he left for school almost four years before. Anyway, I snuck into his dorm. He wasn’t living in a building; it was more like a house. With his girlfriend, Jess. Jessica Moore. And I didn’t come in by knocking on the door. Oh no. I had to be the sneaky big brother, the prankster, and climbed in a window. So of course Sammy comes down to see what’s happening because I make more noise than I should, right? And instead of letting him hit me upside the head with a baseball bat, I tackle him; messing around like we used to do when we were kids. But we weren’t kids.” Dean’s lip is trembling. “Not anymore. And he wasn’t happy to have who he thought was this burglar diving at him, so we started wrestling, punching each other. He punched me and I’m not the kind of guy who just lets something like that go. I hit him back, and we’re rolling all around bumping into things. There were candles on the windowsills—lighting the way for the trick-or-treaters I guess. Or the partiers who came home at three in the morning. Anyway, I said ‘easy, tiger’ to him. ‘Looks like you forgot most of your training’ because he’d learned self-defense when he was young. We both did. Well now he knows it’s me, and he has to prove me wrong because he’s Mr. Fitness or something. So he flips me off of him and throws me down; I hit the wall, and after I get up, one damn candle falls off of the sill and lands next to the curtain. We didn’t notice it right then, because Jess came in wondering what the hell was going on…and whew. That girl had on a nice tight shirt with Smurfs on it.” Dean runs his tongue over his lips and smiles before going back to the story. “Anyway, I told Sam I needed to speak with him in private, right? He just gives me a bitch-face and says ‘whatever you have to say, you can say in front of her,’ indicating Jessica. So I told him Dad was on a hunting trip and he hadn’t been home in a few days. Them’s the magic words, and he said ‘Jess, please excuse us’ and then after we talked he goes back into his bedroom to pack up some stuff and talk to her…it was then that I finally saw the fucking fire.” He takes a shuddering breath but continues on: “It was flickering yellow and orange and I saw that damn curtain alight and ripped it off its hinge but the flames spread, they’d already covered part of the carpet and I guess the wooden walls were untreated or really old because smoke was coming off of ‘em and the hallway was full of smoke and flames and I started running to get to Sam. Upstairs windows were breaking and I thought his would too, but the panes must’ve been pretty thick—just like that damn door—and I kept trying to break it down until the firemen grabbed me and took me outside, put out some flames which had caught on my leather jacket. I kept telling them to go back in, to save Jess and Sam... But they didn’t. There wasn’t time and no way they could’ve survived. There was a better percentage for me—but I didn’t care. I didn’t deserve to live, Cas. I started the fire. Sammy was going to law school and then get married and he was such a good kid, such a smart kid. A way better person than I am. I left, drove around the country trying to escape it for ten years by making up some shit about a demon causing that fire—as well as the one that killed our mom in 1983—and deluded myself into thinking I had to hunt down all these supernatural creatures: demons, shifters, wendigoes, werewolves, malevolent spirits, etc. But I couldn’t escape. I couldn’t even get outta the state because when the cops caught me they sent me back here, less than 30 minutes from where it all started.” He clears his throat and goes silent. Leaning over and driving the heels of his hands into his eyes, his arms resting on his knees, Dean waits for Castiel to be done with him, to open the door and call the goons to send him right back up to Disturbed. None of that happens. Instead the nurse comes right up to his patient and kneels.

“Dean, please look at me.” The haunted man raises his eyes that are so full of pain they appear empty. His nurse nods at him. “Thank you for telling me those things. And for allowing me to help you.” Dean attempts to nod and make some sort of reply, but only a broken sound escapes his throat, and Cas wraps the patient tightly in his arms.


	6. ...Getting Out?!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean receives good news from a most unlikely source, and impossible news from a trusted one.

~  
That day something is different. The other patients give Dean sideways looks, and nurses stalk him as he walks the hallways. What the fuck, I’m not going to throw an old unused hydrotherapy machine through the window like Chief Bromden did—though Will Sampson ROCKED in that movie—but seriously, this isn’t Hollywood. Things are a whole lot darker and shittier in this life than they would be if I actually lived in a movie, Dean thinks furiously. 

“What’s going on?” He asks Jo.

“Search me.”

“Don’t lie to me, Harvelle. I’ve got a nose for liars, and right now you’re stinking like the best of ‘em.”

“Whatever, Winchester. I’m not allowed to tell you. Patient confidentiality.” Dean growls at her menacingly, but Jo doesn’t look scared. It pisses him off, and he paces up and down the length of the whole dayroom before he is accosted by Ruby.

“Will you sit the fuck down, dick? I’m trying to watch my show.”

“You’ve got every other day to watch your goddamn show, bitch. I’m fucking sick of this place. What the hell is going on?? Nobody will tell me anything.”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Smirks Ruby. “You’re going to be set free.”

“What?” Dean feels his face go cold. That can’t be it. This is a sick joke. 

The wannabe demon rolls her eyes. “Listen, dumbass. Whenever you get sidelong looks from the nurses, it means they’re trying to be hush-hush and the only reason they would do that is because they need to make a final evaluation for your exit paperwork. Trust me; I’ve seen it happen enough times. Someone is getting you out of this shithole.”

“Who?” Dean feels like he’s drowning. “I don’t have anyone left.”

“Aw, isn’t that sweet. You obviously have SOMEbody, or your nurse wouldn’t be compiling all your records or getting out the clothes you came in.” Ruby nods over at the nurses’ station, where Castiel is doing exactly that. Dean strides over to the glass wall without even thanking her.

“Cas.” He snaps. “What the hell is this? How could I be getting out today?!” Meg stares at Castiel accusingly.

“Did you tell him?”

“No, I did not.” To Dean: “Why is it impossible for you to believe that your family would come to get you out?” Dean cannot breathe. He stares at his nurse. After their long talks and the immense amount of belief he had professed in Dean’s non-delusions--after Dean came back from Disturbed, how could he do this?

“We’ve been over this, Cas. I don’t have any family left.”

“You probably shouldn’t tell your brother that.” His brother…?

No. No way.

“No fucking way!” The nurse buzzes himself out of the station and beckons to Dean.

“Come and have a look.” They start to walk down the hallway that stretches cold and white and endless as the other nurses and patients stop and stare as they pass, speaking in whispers. It’s like they’re moving toward a hospital morgue.

“Stop it, Cas. Just cut it out. Are you trying to make me crazy?! Sam is DEAD! I TOLD you how it happened!!! Why are you doing this to me, man?”

“Because you were wrong. Grief-stricken and confused, your mind played horrible tricks upon your consciousness. It is all-too possible for things like that to happen when a person has been exposed to repeated trauma that is re-triggered by one’s own apparent actions, Dean.” He reaches the final door first and gestures his patient toward its porthole. “Look.” Dean does not want to; he doesn’t want to grant truth to Castiel’s words, but he remembers something he’d said angrily to the nurse earlier in his treatment. Castiel had been exasperated when Dean had stolidly refused to undergo electro shock therapy again. “Why don’t you just accept it, Dean?” His nurse, frustrated, had asked him. “It will be a lot easier, and it has to happen; there isn’t another choice, you know.” Dean had whacked himself on the stainless steel pan that had held the bland shit they tried to peddle off as food while trying to back away from the two large muscle men that always came to deal with the ‘problem patients’—who have douche-baggy names (Uriel, really? What kind of name IS that?!), he had stared Cas down and said:

“Huh. Man, that’s crap. You always have a choice. You can either roll over and die, or you can keep fightin’. No matter what.” 

Castiel had nodded at him then, and somehow, after that, Dean didn’t have to undergo any more shock treatments. It must have been some sort of test. Probably some more sadistic shit forced and thrust upon the lower nurses by Crowley to see how loyal their patients are. Especially Dean. The Head Nurse had been making his life even MORE of a living hell. What refusing treatment told the other nurse practitioners about him, Dean still doesn’t know, but he was willing to trust Nurse Castiel. Remembering that fact now, Dean forces himself to act upon his own words. He sees Castiel nod again, as he had before. Dean shuffles forward in his static-safe shoes, blinks and stares through the window as a shaggy-haired plaid-wearing giant bends over the front desk and carefully signs something with a pen before smiling at the receptionist. This vision is only clear for a second before a watery film covers Dean’s eyes and he can no longer see. With a single wrenching sob, he turns around and runs into Cas’s chest. His nurse’s arms wrap around him tightly, and Dean clutches the back of his white lab coat as if it is the only real thing left in the world. He hears Meg’s shriek back at the nurses’ station and then she’s talking over the intercom to Crowley, something about unwarranted-patient-nurse practitioner-contact, and then he hears the smarmy British git come out of the supply room (where he was probably checking out some new instruments of torture), come toward them and say,

“You are out of order, Nurse Castiel,” before Cas straightens up and loosens one of his arms from around Dean.

“Fine.” He unpins his badge and slaps it into the head nurse’s palm. “I quit.”

“You WHAT?!?”

“I quit,” Castiel says quietly. “I am going to leave to be with Dean, and you now have no power to stop me.” There is silence as Dean raises his incredulous tearstained face to stare at Cas. The ex-nurse nods once in affirmation of his choice, and there is a muted buzz as the door unlocks. Andy grins at the two men from the spot where he has appeared next to the nurses’ station and gives Dean a thumbs-up. Carrying Dean’s extra set of clothes under one arm, with the other still bracing his patient, Castiel leads the other man through the door as if they are the last two sailors exiting a sinking ship. After the door shuts behind them,

“Are you sure you want to leave here with me?” Dean asks. 

“Of course. I said I would watch over you, remember?” Castiel firmly replies.

“Yeah. Yeah you did. Thanks, Cas.”

“You are welcome,” the quiet man says, and they walk the rest of the distance over to Sam while, parked outside the building behind him, the Winchester brothers’ beloved Baby waits.


	7. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All is (unbelievably!) understood

~~~  
When Dean at last makes it to Sam, his brother smiles at him, those weary eyes lighting up so that for a moment he looks like a little kid again.

“Dean.” The younger man says simply, pulling his big brother into a fierce bone-bruising hug. This doesn’t bother Dean. He shuts his eyes and clutches his gargantuan brother close. He tries to make a joke, something like 'I see you still haven’t heard of a haircut' or 'God, I’ve missed your musk,' but for once he can’t force anything snide past the lump that is firmly lodged in his throat. All he manages to articulate for the moment is,

“Hey, Sammy.” That is enough, and then Sam is turning to his brother’s nurse, who has stood back at a respectful distance before stretching out his hand to shake Sam’s. Sam refuses this, and draws the startled man in for a hug as well. Dean rolls his eyes. “Why don’t you just give him a kiss, Sam?” He can’t help it; he IS still the older brother, after all, and it’s his job to tease the kid. Sam only grins.

“Eat me, Dean,” he says before nodding at Castiel with love and respect in his gaze. “After doing so much for both of us, he’s family.” Dean shakes his head, but inwardly he’s pleased.

“Okay, Bobby.” Sam gets a superior look on his face, but Dean can tell that he’s pleased with the comparison to their gruff father figure. Thinking of Bobby reminds him—how is all of this even happening?? “Wait, Sam,” Dean reaches out to stop him as they begin leaving. Sam turns with his face open and expectant, the way it always is when Dean is about to ask him a question. “What the hell is happening? I thought I’d left you—when I came in your dorm that night, that you and Jessica—the fire was my fault, man; I started it and I made up some story about demons and shit so I wouldn’t have to deal with the consequences of any of it—I concocted this elaborate life we led until a year ago, when apparently my psyche just couldn’t take it anymore so I broke and had some Demon Trials kill you. What the hell?!” Sam looks at him, eyes widening and lips pursing, first shocked and then concerned.

“Dean, you didn’t make any of that up. It all happened. You got me out of the room just as Jessica—” he chokes up and cuts off the word "ignited", takes a deep breath, and presses on. “All of that demon stuff was real, man. The Trials made things go haywire at first, so when I got back through Purgatory I couldn’t find you.” He starts to suck in air as though he’s about to have a panic attack, but Castiel puts a reassuring hand on Sam’s shoulder and that brings him back. “Thanks, Cas. Well, I started doing research and figured out that Crowley had you in here,” he gestures around the mental hospital, “and was pulling some pretty heavy magic on you to make you see Victor, and Ruby, and Garth, and Ellen, and Meg, and Jo…”

“…So that I’d think none of the hunting we’ve done was real,” Dean utters. “Damn.”

“Then Sam discovered where I was,” Castiel continues the relation, nodding at the younger Winchester. “He found me; a human who could still hear angel radio and knew about the demons that had escaped from Hell, and so together we hatched a plan.” Crows-feet appear at the corners of the ex-nurse’s eyes when he smiles. “So I HAVE been here for six years; I have just also known you for most of them.”

“You sly son of a bitch!” Dean crows, punching Cas in the arm. “I KNEW it! I knew you had to be you—I couldn’t make up something that weird in my own mind!!”

“How articulate you are, Dean.” Castiel smiles slightly, pleased with himself. His smile disappears as he continues, “I had to nurse you back to health mentally before telling you that your entire worldview was skewed because of demon magic—not only that of Crowley himself, but also with the help of his witch of a mother, Rowena—when you had completely convinced yourself that yes, you believed demons were real, but in the rest of the world’s reality they could not be—well, I,”

“Let’s just say he had to do a LOT of reading,” Sam cracks.

“Don’t worry, you’re still the head nerd in that department, Sammy,” snickers Dean.

“Jerk.”

“Bitch.”

“Assbutts,” Cas adds, which makes Dean bust out laughing, and then Sam does too. Castiel tries to look affronted, but then he can’t help joining in. And as they exit the hospital, the members of Team Free Will are now together, for forever, once again.


End file.
